


Bohemien

by trajektoria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 19th Century, AU, Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angst, BAMF!John, Betrayal, Desire, Doctor!John, Drugs, Friends to Lovers, Gypsy, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance, Sex, Sexual Tension, Sherlock AU, Slash, Teenage Sherlock, Violence, Virgin!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:12:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trajektoria/pseuds/trajektoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU set in the 19th Century. John Watson, an established doctor from London, goes to Paris to attend a medical conference and decides to stay in the city for a few more days. He doesn't know yet that he'll meet there an exceptional 'gypsy' boy and this encounter will change his life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Gypsy Boy

_Paris is indeed splendid_ , Doctor John Watson thought to himself as he was strolling on a boulevard right next to the Seine. Weather was certainly more pleasant here than in England – all sunny, with occasional white cloud puffs blowing across the blue sky.

John was really glad that he had accepted an invitation to a medical conference, which took place in the capital of France two days ago, and decided to stay in the city for a whole week. A well-deserved vacation, he repeated inwardly with satisfaction. And the hotel was just marvellous.

He glanced mildly intrigued at bookstalls lined up on both sides of the path, but he brought himself to heel and averted his gaze. He wasn't here to browse through musty novels, his purpose was far more important. Or so he hoped, filled with doubt.

It was still relatively early, so the gas lanterns weren't lit. John, however, wished that the darkness could come and engulf him, hiding from prying eyes of other people. As a doctor and a gentleman he felt rather uneasy, entering a funfair set up by bunch of gipsies on a grassland near the river. The meadow was covered with numerous, tawdry tents and wagons painted in absolutely tasteless combinations of colours and John could hardly spot patches of grass among the crowds of Parisians looking for entertainment. He had to nearly elbow his way through, but at least he knew where he was going. Mike, his friend from Bart's who currently lived in Paris, gave him very specific instructions how to get to the most interesting part of the fair.

Finally, after stomping on feet of at least seven people, John arrived at his destination point. It was a small, black and red striped tent decorated with fluffy, pinkish garlands. A stocky middle-aged gipsy was enticing people to come inside. He was also collecting entrance fee, so John paid grumpily a few franks, hoping that the show would be worth it. Nonetheless, he couldn't contain his curiosity. Mike only told him about the place and insisted that John simply has to see it without any discussion. So upon entering, as he took off his top hat and bowed down to fit into the tent's narrow entrance, he wondered what marvels would be awaiting him inside.

Certainly he wasn't prepared for what appeared before his eyes, instantly irritated by the overwhelming stench of opium smoke. A pale boy, looking no more than sixteen years old was sitting cross-legged and bare feet on the floor in front of a crystal ball. His cold, blue eyes were locked casually on John, as he puffed a cloud of acrid mist into the air, wisps of fumes still billowing above his pipe. The boy was extremely lanky and even heaps of colourful, garish rags wrapped up around his body couldn't conceal that fact. Dozens of beaded bracelets on his ankles and wrists as well as purple bandanna supporting his raven hair only added to the overall eccentricity.

"That's definitely not what I've expected," John summed up slowly, using French. His brows came together as if he was still trying to make sense of the situation.

"And what did you expect?" The boy replied with a cheeky smile. Clearly he wasn't used to showing any respect to his elders.

"An old gypsy woman shrouded in mystery for starters, not a flamboyant kid. And you're not even a gipsy." John scowled, beginning to think that Mike played a nasty trick on him.

The boy's smile became wider.

"No, I'm not. And you're obviously not French, even though your accent is impeccable."

"Thank you. I guess." John was slightly taken aback. There was something weird about this fake gipsy, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

The boy laughed mockingly at his client's confusion and moved a bit closer to him.

"So, dear doctor, should I gaze into my crystal ball and foretell your future? Or maybe read your palm? Or lay out the Tarot?"

"No, I don't believe in this nonsensical hocus-pocus," he stated firmly, but the realisation hit him like a hammer. "How did you know I'm a doctor?"

"It's obvious." The smile vanished from the boy's face, replaced by the look of utter concentration. He put his pipe down and started speaking with the speed of a rushing train. "When you removed your hat while entering, you did it very carefully as if you didn't want to drop anything. That means you're used to carry something inside, most probably a stethoscope - quite a delicate contraption - and even though you don't have it right now, the habit is stronger, so you carry it most of the time. When you stood at the doorway and marvelled at the unexpected sight," His voice dripped sarcasm. "your right hand clenched, which means you unconsciously wanted to get a grip at something in the unfamiliar situation. Taking into account my previous observation, I venture to say it's a bag and who always takes a bag with him? A doctor, of course. The final proof is in your clothes. The quality of fabric is very good, so only a wealthy man can afford them. But they're very pragmatic, devoid of any unnecessary fashion ornaments that can quickly become outdated. That means these clothes are investment for many years and also they're not only clothes, but a uniform needed for your job. The one that elicits trust from people and evokes respect. So, it's elementary that you're a doctor."

The silence in the tent was absolute. John was dumbfounded, staring at the boy in awe. Mike didn't lie, there really was something extraordinary waiting for him at the funfair. But then an inborn scepticism began to take John over.

"It's all a prank, isn't? Mike told you about me, his unbelieving friend, and you two thought about impressing me with "a magic trick", right? What else did he tell you?"

The boy bridled at the accusation.

"It's not a trick, it's deduction! And I don't know any Mike."

"Well, I don't believe you." John crossed his arms on his chest. He didn't like being taken for a fool.

"How can I prove to you that I'm not a cheat?" The boy inquired, visibly offended.

John smirked.

"Okay then. If you're so smart, tell me what I had for breakfast!"

The boy quickly scanned his client and announced with confidence as if it was all self-evident.

"Tea with milk, no sugar, and bread rolls with bacon".

John was stunned, his eyes wide opened and mouth slightly agape. Mike couldn't possibly have known that!

"H-how...?" His voice failed him.

The boy gave him a superior smile.

"There's a distinct greasy stain near your left cuff and its fresh. The only food eaten during breakfast that can leave this kind of residue is bacon, so the conclusion is obvious. And as for the bread rolls, there are breadcrumbs near the seam of your lapel. Their shape clearly indicate they come from a bread roll and not bread or baguette. And tea... that was just too easy. You're English. You always drink tea with milk."

"And the lack of sugar?" He mouthed, still petrified. 

"Well, I admit that was a guess, but a good one fortunately," he beamed, clearly proud of himself.

"That's truly amazing." John finally regained his ability to speak coherently. "You're always so observant?"

"Oh, I'm just warming up!" The boy declared, his eyes alight with excitement.

Something in his voice made John believe him without any reservations. John really felt intrigued, spellbound even. He wanted to know about this mysterious boy as much as possible.

"Where are you from?"

"Andalusia," he answered simply, reluctant to dwell upon this topic.

"Did you have any formal education?"

"Yes. But I am mostly self-taught person. My governess didn't have sufficient knowledge about anatomy, chemistry and physics. She was an idiot." He said matter-of-factly. "I practically weaned myself on scientific books."

The boy made an indelible impression on him, John couldn't deny that. The gipsy tent wasn't a place for such astuteness.

"You're wasting your talent here. With such intelligence you should be a scientist, an inventor or at least a doctor and not... a fortune-teller in a third-grade funfair."

The boy sighed and confessed grudgingly, his eyes downcast.

"All of that costs money and my options are rather limited, since I ran away from home," he admitted, no self-pity in his voice. Only an unwavering resolution never to come back.

John understood it too perfectly, as a doctor he witnessed many times how horrible one's family can be. Thus, he didn't need to think long to make a decision. He instantly knew what to do.

"You can come with me to London. I was looking for an assistant, anyway. I can teach you all that I know and I'll pay you enough so you can study whatever you want. I have the wherewithal to give you the future you deserve."

The boy looked at him hopefully, but hints of disbelief chased all enthusiasm away.

"You're proposing such a thing to a complete stranger?"

"Let's say that I'm a good judge of character." John smiled warmly. "Are you interested then?"

"That's quite an offer." The boy was lost in thoughts, still leery of John. But he calculated all fors and againsts and eventually said:

"Yes. Little help wouldn't go amiss."

"Splendid! And where are my manners, I haven't introduced myself yet. My name is John Watson. And yours?" He asked, while holding out his hand to the boy.

"Sherlock Holmes," he shook his hand vigorously.

John's forehead creased.

"That's hardly a Spanish name."

"I've never said I was Spanish. I only said I come from Andalusia," he retorted in perfect English accent, a mischievous smile showing on his face.

John snorted and shook his head.

"A British boy running away from his home in Spain to France and going to England. Now that's interesting..."

"Oh, the interesting has just begun!" He grinned winsomely. And John knew he could trust him on that.


	2. Torn apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John observed how Sherlock was turning into a worldly young man, he couldn't help but to feel paternal pride. It began, however, to dawn on him that his feelings towards Sherlock were not fatherly at all. Far from them in fact.

More than a year. It was precisely one year and two months since respectable doctor John Watson gave mysterious Sherlock Holmes shelter. He never regretted that decision, even though living with a moody genius under one roof was not a bed roses. John constantly marvelled at boy's – or rather young man's – hunger for knowledge and sighed inwardly at his absolute disregard for social norms and rules of politeness. At least he managed to convince Sherlock to abandon his gypsy style of dressing and switch to something more civilised, although for some reason the boy insisted on wearing the purple bandanna around his neck. But that was a minor eccentricity and John could turn a blind eye to it.

Professors at the Queen Mary's were also uncharacteristically lenient towards their youngest and exceptional, but unruly student. Apparently, they came to a conclusion that the owner of such massive intellect deserves some allowances. Sherlock kept his end of the deal with John and in his spare time was helping with Watson's medical practice. Even though Sherlock lacked the empathy needed to be a good doctor, he was a real whiz at human anatomy and chemistry. And when he wasn't busy studying or assisting, he was hiding away in John's study, where he buried himself in books. He devoured all scientific publications he could find, an unquenchable thirst for new information always glistening in his eyes.

Despite that and the age difference - John was thirteen years older than Sherlock - he never felt that there was any kind of distance between them. Sherlock was always seeking John's companion and kept talking to him and asking for his opinion on various topics, even though John didn't harbour any illusions that he can ever be boy's equal when intellectual discourse was involved. Sometimes Sherlock made him feel his superiority, but John knew he didn't do it out of malice. It was just a part of his character; he needed to be in the centre of attention surrounded by an adoring audience that had to be impressed by everything he did. Just like that fake gypsy boy pretending to know people's fate.

Still, John was pleased with the close rapport they established. He no longer felt lonely in the big house, living alone only with his old servant. Sherlock brought light into his life. The boy was like a torch flickering brightly and dispersing the solitude. And when John observed how Sherlock was turning into a worldly young man, he couldn't help but to feel paternal pride.

It began, however, to dawn on John that his feelings towards Sherlock were not fatherly at all. Far from them in fact. Those suspicions filled him with fear, though he tried as he might to fight his urges. Nevertheless, he couldn't resist casting furtive glances at Sherlock. His eyes were following the boy's every move, every grimace on his face, every ray of sunshine caught in his raven hair. John was ashamed and disgusted with himself. The fire, hellfire, in his veins burned incessantly, driving him insane. Being so close and yet so far away from Sherlock, unable to touch and kiss him, was agonizing. However, John had no other choice but to grit his teeth and suffer in silence for the boy's sake. Every incautious move would result in losing Sherlock's friendship and company forever. But one day John couldn't take it anymore and lost his self-control.

He saw Sherlock sitting at the desk in his study, hands stapled under his chin, and reading a book by oil lamp, preoccupied as always. It was late, nearly midnight, but John just returned home from an urgent visit to a patient. Unfortunately, all his efforts were in vain. The poor woman died of pneumonia, John couldn't do anything for her, no matter how hard he tried. He was a doctor for many years, he accepted the fact that he never will be able to save everyone. But nonetheless he felt piercing chill soaking through his skin into his bones. He was tired, dispirited, wanting only to burrow under the duvet and forget about everything. Instead, not knowing why, he went into the study and perched himself at the edge of the desk.

"You should go to bed, the clock will soon strike twelve," he said, genuine care in his voice.

"I know. I'll just finish this chapter, barely seventy pages to go." Sherlock answered amicably, but without turning his eyes to John.

"What are you reading?" John didn't really want to know. He probably wouldn't be familiar with the book anyway. He just craved for the contact, for some sort of closeness with somebody. With Sherlock.

" _Praktisches Handbuch der gerichtlichen Medizin._ "

"Is it any good?"

"Very good." He clearly didn't want to be interrupted any further.

John felt sadness rising in his chest. He wasn't welcomed here, but he wasn't also strong enough to just walk away. He tried to avert his gaze, but his eyes always ended up on Sherlock's face. He knew it was wrong, indecent and inexcusable. But he did it anyway. He hesitantly put his fingers on Sherlock's neck and run them through the boy's smooth skin and his soft, curly hair.

Sherlock stiffened reflexively at John's touch. He didn't even flinch, but it seemed that he withdrew inwardly a little. John took his hand off quickly and jumped to his feet, overwhelming guilt almost preventing him from breathing.

"I knew this day would come eventually." Sherlock said, his voice faltering. He glanced at John, hints of disappointment and reproach in his eyes. He tried to cover his true emotions with self-confidence and contempt, but John could read through him easily.

"What day?" He asked, ashamed and lost.

"The day of payment." The boy answered simply.

"What are you talking about?"

"It's obvious that a grown-up man doesn't take in a much younger companion out of the goodness of his heart," he spewed the words cruelly, while sneering without much conviction. He stayed silent for a while, waiting for everything to sink in with John. The doctor was speechless, so Sherlock added matter-of-factly. "After all I'm nothing more than a kept man to you, you have every right to demand a repayment for all that you've done. And I can only pay with my body, so please, by all means, take it and have fun. Revel in your power over me."

John could swear that a bullet pierced right through his heart. So that was what Sherlock was really thinking of him all that time? He couldn't stand it, couldn't accept it. It was appalling and horrifying. He took a swing and punched Sherlock right in the face with all his strength. The boy nearly fell to the floor, wincing in pain, but John was blinded with rage.

"I never wanted anything in return from you! I simply took care of you, because I thought you deserve a better future! I would never force you to do anything that stands against your morals! I am really piqued that you think so lowly of me," he shoot him a hateful look, but then his anger left him. He felt like a deflated balloon, all empty inside. "Today I overstepped the line. I shouldn't have touched you and for that I apologise. I love you more than a guardian should, and that's my crime. I'm sorry. It won't happen ever again."

John turned around and stormed out of the room, without looking back. He didn't want the boy to see tears welling up in his eyes. He slammed the door behind him, leaving only silence. Sherlock stared at the door for a long time, holding his throbbing cheek, vacant expression on his face.


	3. Hellfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John regrets touching Sherlock against his will and fears that this moment of weakness will destroy their friendship forever. However, the situation is far more complicated than that...

John lay restlessly in his bed and stared at the ceiling. The events from before kept flashing before his eyes like photographs, a painful reminder of the past that cannot be changed. He hated himself for being so weak. In that very moment when he touched Sherlock, he lost everything – boy's respect, trust and friendship. What was even worse, John yelled at him and hurt him physically, even though the doctor never considered himself a violent person. John just couldn't bear it. He felt ashamed and despised himself. He curled up in the fetal position, wanting to simply cease to exist. Eventually, the fatigue won over the conscience and John fell asleep.

 

"John" A faint whisper broke through the haze of John's dreams. He muttered something under his breath, still half asleep, and hugged his pillow.

"John!" This time the voice was louder and more demanding. John opened his eyes, still feeling a bit in a daze. But it was not the daze that surprised him. It was the strange sensation, a mixture of warmth and boniness radiating from his back. He rolled to his other side and found himself facing Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" That was the only thing he was capable of uttering while staring at the boy he thought he lost forever. Sherlock was flustered, unsure and sheepish – the feelings that normally was so uncharacteristic to him that now they made him look almost like another person, much younger and more vulnerable.

_Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock?_ John thought to himself, but said nothing, whereas Sherlock mustered up the courage to speak.

"I misjudged you, John. And for that I apologise," he tried to stay calm, but his voice betrayed all the emotions billowing within him. He couldn't look John in eye, he kept shifting restlessly.

"No, it's me who should be apologising. I touched you against your will and I hit you, that's inexcusable. I'm really sorry," John said gravely.

"That's okay. It doesn't hurt anymore," he gave him a weak smile, waving it off, but John knew better. That kind of swelling indicated excruciating pain. 

"Why are you here, Sherlock?" he asked slowly, lost in thoughts. Sherlock didn't answer, so he continued with curiosity. "Why did you come to my bed after all that happened between us?"

Sherlock bit his lower lips, clearly struggling with something. Finally he yelled with desperation.

"John, don't kick me out!"

A dark cloud moved across John's face. The mystery was solved. Sherlock was afraid to lose his new home, all the money and possibilities that a wealthy protector could provide. Somehow John wasn't surprised. Sherlock didn't care about anything not connected with his studies or research.

"I won't. I took responsibility over you and I'm not the man who abandons his duties." He said somewhat coldly. "So don't worry, you won't lose neither the roof above your head nor all the money needed for your studies."

"That's not important!" Sherlock shouted with agitation, surprising even himself. 

"And what is?" John asked haltingly.

Sherlock seemed disconcerted.

"You," he whispered on the verge of audibility.

John was so startled that his heart skipped a beat. He suddenly felt giddy, thinking he must have misheard. But Sherlock continued with effort.

"I wasn't sure until today. The way you reacted, the real outrage in your eyes, made me think that I was unfair and cruel towards you. I took you for granted. When you hit me, for the first time I actually thought that I may lose you. That thought... was unbearable."

"Sherlock..." he started fondly, but the boy interrupted him.

"You said you love me. It was true, wasn't it?"

"Yes." John swallowed a lump in his throat. "It was true."

"I think... that I have feelings for you as well." 

John fell silent, the joy in his chest wrapping around his ribs and spreading throughout his body. His face broke into an expression of happiness. He was too moved to say anything, he wouldn't know what to say anyway. So he didn't even attempt to open his mouth. Instead, he embraced Sherlock and pulled him close. Sherlock's hands rested on John's back as he nuzzled his face against his neck. They held each other, suspended beyond time, feeling peacefulness and completeness. Words were unnecessary.

When they finally parted, they knew they formed the strongest bond possible. They looked each other in the eye, experiencing the real connection and closeness for the first time in their lives. Was it what people called love? Sherlock wasn't sure. But he wanted it to last. He leaned forward and awkwardly pressed his lips against John's. 

That was more John ever hoped for. His heart melted when he kissed Sherlock back, allowing their tongues to mingle. The warmth, the taste of his mouth, the proximity of the boy's body set fire to the blood in John's veins. He locked his eyes on Sherlock's, awaiting permission, and when he was granted one, he removed Sherlock's shirt. The boy's chest was just perfect – lean, but beautifully shaped. John couldn't restraint himself any longer. He started licking his neck, causing Sherlock to produce a weak and muffled moan. When the boy realised that the sound had left his throat, he bit his lip, embarrassed. John chuckled at his reaction.

"It's all fine. If you feel like moaning, moan."

Sherlock complied with John's advice. He emptied his mind and let John kiss him and caress him, enjoying every second of it. But when John reached for his pants, he shuddered and stopped him.

"John... I... I've never done this before..." he confessed, clearly feeling nervous.

"That's okay. Just relax." John kissed his forehead gently, but couldn't help to feel turned on even more by Sherlock's innocence.

_I will burn in hell._ He thought, not really upset by this at the moment.

Soon they both were naked, John laying on top of Sherlock, their bodies pressed closely to each other, pulsating with anticipation.

"Are you ready?" John purred softly, nibbling passionately at Sherlock's earlobe and grinding his hips against Sherlock's.

"Yes..." A load moan escaped his lips as he writhed in pleasure, his fingernails digging into John's back.

Unfortunately, the sensual atmosphere was ruined by persistent rapping at the door to John's bedroom. The lovers froze in surprise.

"Sir?" The apologetic voice was coming from the corridor.

"Please, Mrs Hudson, go away!" John yelled back angrily. "It's middle of the night! Whatever it is, it can wait till morning!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but it's urgent." She replied.

John cursed foully under his breath, but got up. He told Sherlock to hide under the duvet, when he put his pyjamas on and opened the door.

"What's wrong?" he asked impatiently. She must have heard perfectly the sounds coming from the bedroom, but she didn't make any comments or didn't even give him a meaningful look. And he was eternally grateful for that.

"The messenger brought this letter just a minute ago and told me to give it to my master immediately," she said, still in her nightgown, and handed the envelope over to John. He thanked her puzzled and returned to his room, closing the door behind him. John lit the oil lamp standing on the bedside table and looked closer at the unexpected delivery. Sherlock watched everything from behind John's back.

There was nothing written on the envelope – no address, no name. John was really curious who could have send him a note at this hour. He tore the letter open and took out a sheet of paper, unfolding it. He began to read, Sherlock alongside him.

_Dear Mr Watson,_

_I have been reliably informed that you are currently housing an individual going by the name of Sherlock Holmes. Though I appreciate your hospitality, I must insist that you give the boy back to his lawful guardians. I expect to collect him tomorrow, sharply at 9 am. I believe you are a reasonable man and will comply without any objections._

_Yours sincerely,_   
_Mycroft Holmes_

"No, no, no, no!" Sherlock groaned like a wounded animal. He hid his head between John's shoulder blades and hugged him tightly, seeking protection.


	4. The Devil Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has no other choice but to reluctantly tell John all about his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [ thatsaralacey](http://thatsaralacey.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.

The letter completely killed the romantic mood. Sherlock was too distraught and terrified to think about anything else; John, to be honest, was also quite worried. And angry, yes, angry too. Furious even. No one could order him around and threaten him in his own house, John would not allow it. 

Sherlock insisted that he should pack up right now, _they_ should pack right now, and flee before the break of dawn. If they left home immediately, they could be far away from London by the time Mycroft came to visit. John didn't want to run like a coward, though. He wrapped his arm protectively around Sherlock, letting the boy know he'd take care of everything and definitely wouldn't give him away without a fight; a fierce and brutal fight, if needed. That seemed to reassure Sherlock a little, and he flashed him a wan smile, snuggling to him closer. John stroked the curly hair in a comforting manner and placed a gentle kiss on the boy's forehead. 

“If you want me to keep you safe, you have to tell me everything,” John whispered after a few minutes of silence. “I've never asked before, I didn't want to push you into confessions. I understood you were secretive about your past and probably had a good reason for that, but now I have to hear the whole story. I want the truth, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was reluctant. He had never let even one word slip about his relatives or his childhood. Still, John had a point. The boy finally relented, heaving a sigh, and began his extraordinary tale. 

Sherlock was born in England – Oxfordshire, to be precise. However, when he was about four, his family moved to Spain because his father, a diplomat, had been delegated there on some kind of political mission for The Crown. It was obvious from an early age that Sherlock was brilliant, a proper genius, so his parents wanted to take advantage of that. They provided the best education possible, at the same time robbing the boy of his childhood and forbidding him to waste time on such trivialities like playing with his peers. Sherlock didn't address it directly, but John could sense how terribly lonely the boy was. John brushed his thumb against Sherlock’s cheek tenderly to show him some affection. Sherlock hummed with contentment, leaning into the touch, and went on with the story. 

All the schooling satiated his thirst for knowledge, but he was far from being happy at home. He knew that his parents wanted him to follow into his father's and older brother's footsteps and make a career in politics. Sherlock hated that idea and struggled against it with all his might. He found politics awfully boring and all the politicians nothing more than a bunch of deceitful imbeciles. The truth - that was something far more interesting to the boy. To sit all day in the laboratory and perform chemical experiments, finding out how the world really worked; to look at people and deduce every little detail about their lives, to find the facts behind the façade of their lies and appearances. That brought him real satisfaction. He had the soul of a scientist and a scholar, not a diplomat. 

His father though – a strict, overbearing and violent man, who liked to booze – didn't take too kindly to hearing “no”. Every time Sherlock unable to keep his mouth meekly shut, defied him, the man beat him up and abused him. This occurred more and more with each passing day; his mother and brother did nothing to help him. Finally, Sherlock had had enough of the pain and humiliation. He was no older than thirteen years old when he ran away from home, joining a travelling gypsy carnival. His natural intelligence, astuteness and deductive skills were mistaken for magical powers. Sherlock adapted quickly to Bohemians' strange customs and earned his living during fairs as a prestidigitator, fortune-teller and occasionally a dancer who let snakes wrap around his lithe body. 

John's imagination ran wild and he swallowed hard at that last mental image, shaking his head violently to focus on the tale again. Sherlock chuckled softly and promised he'd do an exclusive performance just for him.

Sherlock travelled all across Europe with the Gypsies, enjoying his new life of freedom and adventures immensely. He picked up some bad habits along the way, though, like gambling (he won most of the times, so no real damage done), lying through his teeth, or smoking opium; he claimed that he was done with drugs. Everything was going great, but when he turned sixteen, he began to miss the city and more refined culture. Returning home was out of the question, and he didn't have enough money to live on his own. Besides, he was still a minor. The problem seemed unsolvable, but then John came, like a knight in shining armour, offering Sherlock the opportunity he wanted and needed so badly. Thanks to the good doctor, the boy could experience all that he longed for and much more, even falling in love, despite his strong belief that he was incapable of such sentiment. 

However, Sherlock didn't foresee that his family would still be looking for him, in disbelief that he had died. It was most unfortunate that his older brother, Mycroft – Sherlock nearly spat out his name – was visiting London on some sort of political mission where he met with an old friend, a professor at the University, who casually mentioned the exceptionally bright, young student, possibly the most intelligent one that ever had crossed the threshold of the city's alma mater. That got Mycroft thinking, and he sent his spies to gather as much information about the boy as possible. And that was how, Sherlock supposed, he discovered that John was giving Sherlock shelter and protection. Perhaps he had even got to know more than he should have. 

Judging from what Sherlock had said about him, Mycroft was a very influential and powerful ma,n despite his youth. As perspicacious as Sherlock but far more ruthless, he was occupying a minor position in the British diplomatic corps. Officially, that is. Off the record, he had his fingers in every shady pie in Europe. It was evident that Sherlock hated him with passion but was also quite afraid of him, even though he would never admit it aloud. That was the reason he urged John to run away with him immediately. The doctor tried to calm him down the best he could. He even said that he'd sooner shot Mycroft right between the eyes with the very pistol he was keeping in his bedside table drawer than let him take Sherlock against his will. The boy shuddered, hoping that John really meant it. His mind was racing, looking for solutions, trying to come up with a plan to save them both. 

No more sleeping or intimacy that night. They both got dressed properly, and John ordered Mrs. Hudson to prepare some tea for them. It distressed her visibly to see her master in apparent trouble. That woman was truly an angel, John thought fondly. She had known him since he was a little boy, working previously as his nanny; she felt more like a mother figure to him than his real mother. John knew that Mrs Hudson only wanted him to be happy; thus she didn't judge him nor was she opposed to his blooming romance with a much younger boy. John trusted her without any reservations. 

Sherlock and John went to sit in the living room and discuss over tea what to say to Mycroft and how to defend Sherlock from him. The least they could do was buy the boy some time until he turned eighteen and became a legal adult capable of making his own decisions. By the time the grandfather clock struck nine, Sherlock was anxiously pacing all around the room like a caged tiger, perhaps equally dangerous and desperate. 

The moment they both dreaded came at last: the knock on the door. John wasn't a coward, and he certainly wouldn't ever be afraid of anyone in his own house, but he had to admit that he wasn't feeling completely at ease. He couldn't help but worry what would become of him and Sherlock. Was their little and harmless affair over before it had even properly started? His jaw tensed. No, he wouldn't allow himself to even consider such possibility. In John's body lived the soul of a soldier; he certainly didn't have any intention of giving up without a fight. He was prepared to do anything for the person he loved, even if he was a man and the whole of society would condemn them both to hell if they only knew. John took a deep breath, but not to calm himself down. He was gearing himself up for battle. Sherlock's hands clenched spasmodically on the back of his armchair, involuntarily raising his spirits. He was now ready to face that mysterious and menacing brother of Sherlock's.


	5. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes finally arrives...

The unwanted guest entered the living room. The resemblance between the brothers wasn't at all striking. True, Mycroft was as tall as the younger Holmes, but at the same time his figure lacked the grace and allure of Sherlock's. His short hair was brown, his cold, piercing eyes staring intently at John over his prominent nose. He was clad in an expensive suit, clearly man of wealth. Not big on manners, though – he still had his top hat on and hadn’t left his umbrella in the hall. He didn't ask for permission before he sat in the armchair opposite from John, crossing his legs. Truth be told, John wasn't exactly a role model of a host either. The doctor didn't stand up or offer his guest tea, even though a teapot and cups were sitting on the table. The tension in the air was tangible as the two opponents eyed each other, seemingly ignoring the boy, who was murdering his brother with his eyes. 

“Doctor Watson, I presume,” Mycroft flashed him a fake smile and then nodded towards Sherlock. “Brother dear...” Sherlock only glared at him, his gaze reading “go to hell”, so the guest went on. “As you are perfectly aware, my name is Mycroft Holmes, and I come here on behalf of my father, Richard Holmes, who is Sherlock's legal guardian. I am taking my unruly brother home.”

“I'm afraid you are not.” John's voice was calm and even, despite the fact that the blood in his veins was boiling with anger at such insolence. “Sherlock clearly doesn't want to go. Besides, he is an exceptional student at Queen Mary's, and it would be an irreparable loss for all of the science department if he were to cease his schooling there.” 

Mycroft squinted his eyes and reclined in his chair.

“So I've heard... But do you know what I've also heard, Doctor Watson?” He made a pause for a dramatic effect. “That he's been helping you with your medical practice.”

“That is correct. His help is invaluable. I couldn't dream of a better assistant,” John stated defiantly.

“Should I remind you that he's still an unqualified minor? That hardly inspires trust, does it?”

Sherlock made a sound that strangely resembled a growl, so John replied quickly before the boy could lose his temper and make everything more complicated than it already was. 

“Oh, he's qualified enough to change people's bandages or take their pulse,” John waved it off dismissively, showing his nerves of steel. “More complicated procedures are performed by me, obviously. What's more, in a few months Sherlock will become an adult, and he has told me explicitly that after finishing his studies he want to practice as a doctor alongside me.” That was a blatant lie, but John didn't even bat an eyelid; neither did Sherlock. 

“That may be true, but for now Sherlock is still a minor and needs to return home with me. Our family is more than capable of providing the best possible education for him and ensuring that he will get the future he deserves.” Mycroft replied impassively, as if he was convinced everything would end up just as he had planned, even though they were basically back to square one.

“I won't come back with you! Never!” Sherlock blurted out, clenching his fists on the armchair on both sides of John's head. John had to resist the urge to put his hand on Sherlock's arm to calm him down. 

The slight twitch of John's muscles didn't escape Mycroft's attention, though. So that was how things were... He smirked to himself. A plan formed in his head. 

“What is the nature of your relationship with my brother, Doctor Watson?” The older Holmes asked casually, but his eyes glistened menacingly. 

“What do you mean?” John's palms became sweaty, but his face didn't betray any nervousness. Sherlock's expression was stony as well.

“I'm surprised that I didn't encounter any rumours concerning your relationship, especially after that scandalous trial of Oscar Wilde’s a mere couple of months ago. You must have been really careful.”

“What are you implying?” John's voice became openly hostile. So that was the direction in which the conversation was going. The most dangerous direction, seeing as the attitude towards homosexuals had been especially unfavourable recently; it was bordering on a full-blown witch hunt.

“Oh, nothing, nothing at all.” Mycroft turned his eyes to the tip of his umbrella with which he was fiddling. “Your conduct has been immaculate. Not even a shadow of doubt arose in the professors at the University and the many of your mutual acquaintances. However...” His piercing gaze – two frozen lakes hiding how dangerous their depth truly was under the thin ice of civility - flickered once again to the doctor's face. “...that might change. And it will change.”

“I won't allow open threats, Mr Holmes,” John said firmly, but Sherlock seemed alarmed. He knew what his brother was capable of and what he intended to do. Mycroft would have no compunction with destroying John. “This conversation is over. Please leave my property immediately.” 

Mycroft let out a dry laugh, ignoring John's order to get out. “I am not threatening anybody, I'm merely warning you. Sherlock has nothing to lose; when he gets back home to Spain, nobody will care about his reputation in England. Besides, he was the one who got seduced, the poor, naive victim of a lecherous older man.” Mycroft smiled like a shark smelling blood in the water. “But you, dear Doctor Watson, you have everything to lose: your good name, your freedom, your patients. If such malicious and slanderous gossip should arise and discredit you – and I will make sure that it will - your life will be over. You might even end up in jail. So... let's be reasonable. You will allow me to take my brother home where he belongs without any fuss, and we'll part ways as friends. What's more, I can reward you for your trouble with two thousand pounds. Consider my offer carefully, you won't get another one.”

John's face was gradually turning paler and paler as Mycroft spoke, but when the man ended, John felt anger rising in his chest. If he thought that the doctor could be bought or intimidated, then he was painfully wrong. John was about to stand up and kick Mycroft out of his house, when suddenly Sherlock jumped to the centre of the room in a quick leap. John nearly gasped in shock; the boy had a pistol in his hand, the very one from John's bedroom. How and when did he manage to steal it?

“Enough with this nonsense. I'm not going back,” Sherlock aimed the gun at Mycroft's head, his finger on the trigger. As he looked at his impassive brother with hate, John understood that the boy wasn't joking. He was prepared to shoot him. 

“Sherlock, put the gun down, there's no need to be--” John started in a calming tone, but Sherlock's arm moved to aim the pistol at John. 

“Shut up.” His voice was cold and his face expressionless, devoid of any feeling. John had never seen his bright eyes so empty. The doctor was completely taken aback. 

“Sherlock, what are you do--”

“What does it look like? I'm abandoning this sinking ship,” Sherlock gave him a callous smile. When John didn't reply, still in a state of shock, he went on. “You are of no use to me anymore. I need to find another imbecile who will give me shelter and finance my studies.”

John felt as if Sherlock had slapped him across the face. He couldn't believe this was really happening.

“But...”

“What?” Sherlock interrupted him, and his lips twisted into a malicious smile. “You really believed that sweet nonsense I've been whispering into your ear? You thought that I loved you? Really? Don't make me laugh! Why would someone like me love someone like you?” He sniggered at John's naivety. “You're old, too plain for my taste, and your intelligence is questionable at the very least. You are nothing to me, face it.”

Before John could find words to reply to such cruelty, Sherlock turned his attention to Mycroft.

“Don't try to follow me or I _will_ shoot you. Believe me, I'm dreaming about it everyday,” Sherlock said, moving slowly towards the window, his eyes flickering from one man to the other as if anticipating danger. “And your men better leave me alone or I'll shoot them too!”

“You've always been childish, Sherlock. Stop this right now, you can't go on like this forever,” Mycroft said in an attempt to appeal to the boy's common sense.

“Don't tell me what I can't do!” Sherlock yelled while opening the window with his free hand. Before he jumped into the yard and disappeared, his gaze rested on John. Those few split seconds were enough. John could read in Sherlock’s eyes all the hatred, despair and nearly animalistic determination to survive the boy felt. His worst fears had come true: Sherlock had used him for his own convenience. John's whole world began to crumble as his heart shattered into billion pieces. What an old fool he was!

Mycroft sat there for a couple more minutes, staring at the window with a weary expression on his face. He was sick and tired after playing cat and mouse with Sherlock for so many years. With a deep sigh, he finally stood up, seeing no sense in wasting time here any more.

“I almost pity you, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said in as consoling voice as he could muster. “You couldn't have possibly known that my brother's heart is black as coal. He's an extreme individualist and egocentric, he wouldn't lift a finger for anyone but himself. At least now you can see his true colours. A piece of advice from me: stay away from young geniuses. You have no idea how deceiving they can be.”

With these words Mycroft let himself out. John didn't move, didn't even flinch. He just hid his face in his palms, trying to fight off the choking feeling of betrayal.


End file.
